I’ll come back and talk to Pinky alone. She needs an ally before she goes to the authorities.”
Michael glared out the windshield at the house.
I leaned across the seat and kissed his cheek. “Down, boy,” I said.
Before we left the Pinkerton estate, I telephoned Pinky’s oldest friend, Ann Murdock-Smythe, and asked her to hotfoot her way to Pinky’s home. She must have guessed my purpose in calling, because she agreed to come at once. I felt sure Pinky would be safe.
When her car arrived in a spray of gravel, we left and headed for Philadelphia. In the city, Michael and I discovered that Haymaker’s department store was closed for the day because of the police investigation. Printed signs had been taped to all the locked doors. I could see employees inside, however, gathered in small groups. A uniformed police officer stood outside beside a forlorn Santa who dutifully rang his bell for the Salvation Army, despite the lack of shoppers. Michael slipped him a few bills.
“I suppose I can wait until tomorrow to talk to Darwin Osdack,” I said as we walked to the Four Seasons for an afternoon snack.
We ordered a cheese plate and a bottle of a wine Michael had been wanting to try. It was delicious—very dry, yet hinting of berries in hot Italian sunshine. We talked about Popo’s murder for a while; then Michael’s cell phone began to chirp. While he gave monosyllabic answers to his caller, I sipped the wine and watched him, wondering if the time would ever come when I might want to know exactly what he was doing.
Michael closed his phone with a snap and said he had things to take care of and did I want to go home. I needed to attend a cocktail party for a small historical society in my role as the assistant to the
Philadelphia Intelligencer
’s society columnist, so he agreed to take Spike and dropped me at the home of Trenton Aquinas of Society Hill.
“Nora, don’t you look lovely,” Trenton said when he opened the door and I identified myself.
“How would you know, Trent?” I stepped carefully around his Seeing Eye dog, Buster, and gave his whiskery cheek a kiss.
“Well, you smell wonderful,” he said on a laugh. “Very feminine. Welcome to my party. Are you here on official newspaper business, or in response to my private invitation?”
“Can I be both?” I asked.
“Of course. But I heard a rumor that your boss gets testy when you’re invited as a guest and she’s not. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“I can handle Kitty,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I was telling the truth. Even six months after I started working for the newspaper, Kitty Keough was still jealously trying to make my life miserable. She hated that I’d been born into a world in which she would always be an outsider.
Trenton pulled me inside and closed the door. For the evening’s festivities, he wore a Brooks Brothers sport coat over flannel trousers, a pin-striped shirt, and a tie decorated with reindeer—all carefully chosen by his wife. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair impeccably combed. “How do you like having a job? Evie thought you might have trouble adjusting.”
“Actually, the hours suit me very well. I go to parties in the afternoons and evenings, and I do my writing at home on my computer. I can e-mail my pieces anytime before midnight.”
“Sounds like a great gig. I wonder if I could get Evie hired somewhere? She spends my money faster than I can make it.”
Trenton Aquinas didn’t need any more money, no matter how fast his wife could spend it. He had inherited a fortune from his father, who invented a pump for oil wells, and he was due to receive an even bigger inheritance when his elderly mother—one of the Kendricks of Main Line—passed away. Perhaps Trenton’s academic career brought in a little pin money, but it hardly paid the taxes on his Federal-style house that had once been a boarding school for young men of society.
Before I could respond, Evie appeared and
Michael glared out the windshield at the house.
I leaned across the seat and kissed his cheek. “Down, boy,” I said.
Before we left the Pinkerton estate, I telephoned Pinky’s oldest friend, Ann Murdock-Smythe, and asked her to hotfoot her way to Pinky’s home. She must have guessed my purpose in calling, because she agreed to come at once. I felt sure Pinky would be safe.
When her car arrived in a spray of gravel, we left and headed for Philadelphia. In the city, Michael and I discovered that Haymaker’s department store was closed for the day because of the police investigation. Printed signs had been taped to all the locked doors. I could see employees inside, however, gathered in small groups. A uniformed police officer stood outside beside a forlorn Santa who dutifully rang his bell for the Salvation Army, despite the lack of shoppers. Michael slipped him a few bills.
“I suppose I can wait until tomorrow to talk to Darwin Osdack,” I said as we walked to the Four Seasons for an afternoon snack.
We ordered a cheese plate and a bottle of a wine Michael had been wanting to try. It was delicious—very dry, yet hinting of berries in hot Italian sunshine. We talked about Popo’s murder for a while; then Michael’s cell phone began to chirp. While he gave monosyllabic answers to his caller, I sipped the wine and watched him, wondering if the time would ever come when I might want to know exactly what he was doing.
Michael closed his phone with a snap and said he had things to take care of and did I want to go home. I needed to attend a cocktail party for a small historical society in my role as the assistant to the
Philadelphia Intelligencer
’s society columnist, so he agreed to take Spike and dropped me at the home of Trenton Aquinas of Society Hill.
“Nora, don’t you look lovely,” Trenton said when he opened the door and I identified myself.
“How would you know, Trent?” I stepped carefully around his Seeing Eye dog, Buster, and gave his whiskery cheek a kiss.
“Well, you smell wonderful,” he said on a laugh. “Very feminine. Welcome to my party. Are you here on official newspaper business, or in response to my private invitation?”
“Can I be both?” I asked.
“Of course. But I heard a rumor that your boss gets testy when you’re invited as a guest and she’s not. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“I can handle Kitty,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I was telling the truth. Even six months after I started working for the newspaper, Kitty Keough was still jealously trying to make my life miserable. She hated that I’d been born into a world in which she would always be an outsider.
Trenton pulled me inside and closed the door. For the evening’s festivities, he wore a Brooks Brothers sport coat over flannel trousers, a pin-striped shirt, and a tie decorated with reindeer—all carefully chosen by his wife. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair impeccably combed. “How do you like having a job? Evie thought you might have trouble adjusting.”
“Actually, the hours suit me very well. I go to parties in the afternoons and evenings, and I do my writing at home on my computer. I can e-mail my pieces anytime before midnight.”
“Sounds like a great gig. I wonder if I could get Evie hired somewhere? She spends my money faster than I can make it.”
Trenton Aquinas didn’t need any more money, no matter how fast his wife could spend it. He had inherited a fortune from his father, who invented a pump for oil wells, and he was due to receive an even bigger inheritance when his elderly mother—one of the Kendricks of Main Line—passed away. Perhaps Trenton’s academic career brought in a little pin money, but it hardly paid the taxes on his Federal-style house that had once been a boarding school for young men of society.
Before I could respond, Evie appeared and
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